


Dancing Bears, Painted Wings

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anastasia AU, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: It's a plan that suits them both: pretend to be the lost prince of Vere, the only member of the royal family to supposedly escape the coup against King Aleron, and reunite him with his beloved grandmother, the queen of Kempt. One of them gets the chance to escape the dangerous streets of Arles; the other, the possibility of gaining Queen Mathilde's support in his attempt to retake his own throne from his traitorous brother. As with all things, though, devising the plan is far easier than putting it into practice. And for Damen and Laurent, they just might find more than they bargained for along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

The palace was alive with activity. Servants hurried to and fro, each more haggard than the last, arms laden with as many supplies as they could carry, as they had been for days now and would continue to until well after the evening's celebrations had begun. None of them paid Laurent any mind — or so he had suspected, yet when he barrelled down flights of stairs and through long corridors, each and every one of them stepped out of his way to avoid a collision. It was just as well. Laurent didn't have time to slow down.

"Where have you been?" Auguste said the moment he spotted Laurent careening towards him. He was stood just inside the grand entryway, as if he had been waiting for sight of Laurent for some time, already dressed for the evening's reception.

"I lost track of time," replied Laurent, and Auguste rolled his eyes, any real frustration in the expression that that excuse may have once raised long worn away by its frequent use. "Has she left yet?"

"No. She's been waiting for you."

Laurent swallowed as he trailed Auguste through the open doors and out into the courtyard. This would not go down well with his father. In the darkening light of late afternoon, three figures stood as statues among the bustle that continued to unfold outside of the palace walls.

"I was beginning to think you did not wish to see me off," Queen Mathilde announced once Auguste and Laurent had joined them, Laurent pointedly avoiding his father's flinty gaze. There was a smile on his grandmother's face, however, and the corner of Laurent's own mouth tugged upwards in response, while she turned her attention to Auguste. "I only wish I could have stayed to join you in your celebrations."

Her absence would not be long felt, Laurent imagined, given the sheer number of people set to arrive in the coming hours. 'A man reaches his twenty-fifth year only once,' had been their father's justification for the extravagance. Auguste had laughed when Laurent had shared his own suspicions that Aleron's true motivation lay in surrounding Auguste with as many eligible women as possible, in the hope that he might finally take one for a wife.

He was more likely to spirit one away to a secluded area of the palace gardens for an hour, though as far as any others knew, Laurent was ignorant to such matters. It did not seem to occur to his parents that one who spent as much time as Laurent did with their nose in a book would have a fair knowledge of the world and what took place within it.

"Apologies, your Majesty," a footman said to Laurent's grandmother as he dipped his head respectfully, and Laurent frowned in his attempt to listen, his Kemptian rough from infrequent use, "but we will lose the rest of the light if we stay any longer."

"Yes," agreed Laurent's mother. "The road to the border will be treacherous enough this late in the season."

Mathilde nodded. She seemed to stand straighter, her chin held higher and the warm smile on her face masked behind professionalism, at the reminder of her royal position. Laurent still struggled to reconcile the two at times, how she could flit between the roles of warm, good-humoured grandmother and sternly efficient queen with such ease.

"Then I will take my leave, and hope to be reunited again soon." She kissed Laurent's mother once on each cheek, and gave a deep, deferential bow to both the king and the crown prince, who each responded in kind, before turning her attention to Laurent.

He stood straighter as she approached, hands clasped behind his back, the movement smoothed by a lifetime of practice.

She ruffled his hair, the way she had since before Laurent was walking. The only other person Laurent would allow to get away with such a gesture was Auguste. He imagined his grandmother knew that. "Come, Laurent," she said. "Help an old woman into her carriage."

Laurent took her by the hand and led her up into the carriage, following her inside for one last, private farewell. As she sat down, she reached into the folds of her winter robes. She gestured Laurent closer as if about to disclose a secret.

"Here," she said. She offered out a small wooden box, its lid carved with the sigil of the royal house of Kempt: a great, soaring eagle, its vast wings adorned with shining bronze. "You know I don't like you to go empty handed on your brother's day."

Laurent remembered himself just long enough to say a hurried, "Thank you," before wrenching open the box to discover its contents. Inside, nestled among silks that felt like liquid against Laurent's fingers, was a thin golden chain. Laurent followed it with his fingertip until he withdrew a delicate starburst in the same pale gold, with a shining, vibrant sapphire at its centre. Laurent had seen the design before. It hung around Auguste's neck.

"I love it," he said, and meant it.

"Now go," said Mathilde, and when Laurent looked up at her she was watching him fondly. "You need to get dressed for the festivities."

Laurent nodded, and surged forward to throw his arms around her. His father would chastise him for it if he saw, such unrestrained displays of emotion improper for a respectable prince of Vere, but Laurent didn't care.

"Until next time, little one."

He scoffed in response. "I'll be taller than you by then."

"I'm sure you will," Mathilde said, and Laurent jumped out of the carriage without bothering to take either the guard's hand offered out to him or the steps leading down to the ground. The clatter of horseshoes on cobblestones sounded the moment he hit the ground, and the carriage pulled out of the courtyard.

"What did she get you this year?" Auguste said, as Laurent fell into step beside him and they headed back into the palace.

***

Laurent remained close to Auguste's side once the banquet had ended and the entertainments had begun in earnest. It was partly to avoid being crushed amidst the throngs of dancing guests, and partly because there were none in the palace besides his brother that Laurent held any particular desire to speak with. Of course, the crown prince of Vere was a man in high demand on any occasion, and especially so at a celebration in his honour, so Laurent spent much of the evening sighing and rolling his eyes through endless, tedious conversations with what seemed to be every foreign royal, minor lord, and local merchant with whom their father had ever had even the most nominal contact.

He was stifling a yawn into the embroidered sleeve of his jacket when the crowds around them parted and their father approached.

"Have either of you laid eyes on your uncle yet this evening?" Aleron said. As he spoke he took the wine cup from Laurent's fingers before he could take another sip, replacing it with a chalice filled with water. Laurent was sure his father had no idea how old Laurent actually was.

"No," replied Auguste. "You're concerned?"

A noncommittal hum in response. "He was due to return from Chastillon this morning. You know he would hate to miss this."

"He's too good to fall during a hunt," said Laurent, following his father's thinking to its inevitable conclusion.

"None of us are too good or too strong to perish, Laurent. A single careless moment can bring down the best of men."

Before the conversation could turn into a lecture, Auguste, thankfully, intervened. "The air has been cold outside the city," he said, the confident, reassuring smile he always wore so well sitting comfortably on his face. Through the tall windows that lined the opposite wall already there were snowflakes dancing on the breeze, catching the candlelight that breached the darkness outside. "I'm sure he's simply taking more care on the roads to return in one piece."

Aleron nodded his agreement, and turned his gaze to Auguste as if he had not properly laid eyes on him upon his approach, his thoughts to the present again. "I have shared words with King Torgeir," he announced. Despite the innocuous words, there was nothing innocent to their father's tone. Had Laurent not been within Aleron's line of sight, he would have shot Auguste a knowing smirk. He did so love to be proved right. "He has no daughters himself, as you know, though his eldest niece will soon come of age. She is growing into quite the beauty, he says."

"Father," Auguste began. The smile was still on his face, for now, but his voice was firm. This was a conversation that had played out in these halls on many occasions, and was only growing more frequent. "Is now the time?"

Aleron looked around the room, at the countless young noblewomen who would no doubt love nothing better than to catch the crown prince's fancy. If there ever was a time to find oneself a queen, this would be it. "Auguste, you are one day to be king; it is your duty to take a wife." He stepped closer, into the shoes of a father with advice rather than a king dispensing commands, and glanced back towards where Hennike stood with a small clutch of ladies, watching the musicians perform. "Whomever you choose, you will grow to love her. But you must make a choice."

A flicker of mischief rekindled in Laurent's chest. It was never long absent, at events such as this, where there were so few opportunities for entertainment. "Your girl in the kitchens will be so disappointed," he said, smiling sweetly, innocently, up at Auguste as Auguste's eyes widened in alarm.

"He speaks in jest," said Auguste, with a laugh that did not quite ring true. He pulled Laurent against his side in a display of camaraderie, though his grip on Laurent's arm was tight enough to bruise.

Their father's eyes flicked between them. "I should hope so," he replied in the end, but Laurent's words had had the desired effect: Aleron stepped away, with no more than a warning look at the two of them to behave themselves. He was quickly engaged by Councillor Herode, approaching with more haste than Laurent would have thought his aged limbs could muster and the same concerned frown on his face that he so often wore.

"You are a nuisance," Auguste said, and Laurent beamed with pride.

"How long before he has every blond-haired bastard in the city executed, just to be safe?"

"You mustn't joke about such things, Laurent."

Across the room, Aleron and Herode were still deep in hurried conversation, Aleron's frown deepening to match Herode's with each word that passed between them. After a moment he had heard enough. He strode across the room and out of Laurent's sight, leaving Herode scrambling to keep up.

"Do you think when I'm king I will never have a day off either?" Auguste said. He had been watching the pair as well, evidently.

"You'll have me at your side. You know I'll be the one doing all the work."

Auguste laughed, a sound warm enough to fend off the falling snow outside. "Well, you are the brains behind this operation," he said.

Laurent was about to respond when the sounds of some kind of commotion erupted from across the room, the same direction Aleron had headed. The music came to an abrupt, jarring halt, but the eerie silence that would have filled the room in its absence was filled by the cries of harsh voices, too far away and too many at once for Laurent to make out what was being said. He frowned, and craned his neck to try and see.

The trouble with being at least a head shorter than every other guest was that when something did happen, Laurent had little chance of actually being able to witness it. He tried to force his way under arms and between bodies, as the shouts grew louder, but before he could get very far a firm hand yanked him back. A chorus of ragged, terrifying screams sounded from across the room.

"Laurent," Auguste said, urgency in his voice, "stay close."

"What's happening?"

"I don't know."

Through the roiling, increasingly panicked crowd their mother fought her way towards them. Her cheeks were wet with tears. "My boys," she said, and drew them close. She pulled Laurent into a hug tighter than any he had felt before. He clutched her in return. The fear spreading through the room was infectious.

"They're trying to take the palace, aren't they?" he said.

"Yes." Her voice was choked with emotion, the strong, soothing melody of it, which had sung and read to Laurent, offered advice and shared jokes, replaced by a stranger's dreadful tone.

"What is it?" said Auguste.

"Your father..." She couldn't finish her sentence, yet neither Auguste nor Laurent needed her to.

Even surrounded by the warmth of his mother's body pressed tight around him, Laurent felt an icy cold flood through his veins.

Auguste reached for the sword at his hip. It was ceremonial rather than the practical sword of a soldier, but Auguste could still be deadly with it. He turned towards where the mayhem seemed most concentrated, people scrabbling in the opposite direction to safety, and prepared to charge into the fray.

"No," said Hennike, before Auguste could take a step. "There are too many of them. Take Laurent. Keep him safe."

"But Mother—" Laurent said. His every urge was to hold her tighter, to hide among her skirts and pretend none of this was happening. Auguste could keep all three of them from harm. This was their home; they could barricade themselves in one of the countless rooms, behind the gleaming point of Auguste's sword, until the King's Guard could clear out the palace and everything would be as it was.

Another cacophony of screams, closer this time than the last, and Laurent squeezed his eyes shut tight.

"Follow your brother, Laurent," said Hennike, and her tone left no room for argument.

"Quickly." Auguste grabbed Laurent's hand the moment he dropped it from his mother's sides, and they slipped through the chaos and into a side chamber, not yet overrun by the men forcing their way through the palace.

At every doorway, every corner, they paused in breathless wait, torn between the conflicting needs to move swiftly and to remain cautious and out of sight. Laurent was only aware of their steps when they would come to a stop and the thought of the danger their next move may bring resurfaced. His mind remained in the ballroom, on his mother, still somewhere amidst the panicked revellers stampeding with nowhere to go, and on his father. Laurent could see him in his mind, slumped on the ground, forgotten beneath the trampling crowds, an ignoble end for such a discerning, regal man.

Auguste squeezed Laurent's hand. It kept the tears at bay for another moment. "In here," he whispered, and they ducked into their father's council room. It was mercifully empty. Auguste propped a heavy chair beneath the door handles.

Laurent's eyes flicked to the walls: windowless, the thick mahogany panels broken only by the single set of doors through which he and Auguste had entered. There was no escape. The air grew closer around Laurent upon that realisation. "We won't be safe in here if they come for us," he said. Already he could hear shouts from the halls beyond, the growing clamour of angry footsteps.

"We're not staying here."

When Laurent looked back in Auguste's direction he was crouched at the far wall, beside the empty throne, his fingers travelling over the carved wood as if he was searching for something in particular. After a moment, he found it. Dexterous fingers pried against a join in the wood and reluctantly it came free of the wall.

Instead of stone, behind it was the gaping blackness of nothing.

"It's a tunnel," said Laurent. There were plenty hidden throughout the palace, he knew — he had even travelled through some of them, after Auguste had gleefully let Laurent in on the secret of their existence — though he had been led to believe the exact number of them had been lost to history, buried in the graves of the people who had built these rooms. Under different circumstances, Laurent would have wondered how many more there were that Auguste had not seen fit to divulge.

"It leads beyond the palace grounds, out into the city," explained Auguste.

Before either of them could make a move to crawl inside, there was a thunderous crack against the doors, as if the palace itself was being torn asunder. It reverberated through Laurent's body, forcing the air from his lungs and keeping him from filling them again. He jumped at the hand that curled painfully around his wrist.

"Now," Auguste said.

Laurent stumbled as Auguste pulled him to the mouth of the tunnel, and with shaking limbs he knelt. The shocks against the doors were coming with growing speed, and even as Laurent crept into the claustrophobic dampness of the tunnel itself he could hear the wood begin to splinter. He looked back, expecting to see Auguste following, but instead he saw only a thin sliver of the room beyond the panel that had kept this escape secret, the space just wide enough for Auguste to gaze through at him before he could slide it fully into place.

"Don't stop once you reach the other side. Run for as long as your legs will carry you," said Auguste. "I'll find you when this is over."

"Auguste—"

"Go!"

Laurent could just see Auguste draw his sword, the drumbeats from across the room echoing through Laurent's ears, before the light disappeared, and he was alone.

***

_Six years later:_

It was the banging that roused Laurent, like heavy fists on wood, or a succession of thunderclaps rolling down from stormy skies. His eyes were open, a firm grasp on the knife at his side, at the first sound. It never took much to wake him. A heavy sleeper on the streets of Arles would soon find themselves never to wake again.

Tonight, though, he was glad for the reprieve from his dreams, even if now he was left with its confounding aftermath as the dream itself slipped away from him, leaving only the vague impressions of something once familiar. One of these days, he might actually be able to grasp at a few strands, to decipher their strange meaning, to place the rooms he was sure he would remember if he could just take one more look.

But now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts.

He peered over the edge of the hayloft that served as his bedroom for the night, down into the stables below, bracing himself for the sudden emergence of the stable hand come to test Laurent's gratitude. He had no intention of following through on his flirtatious suggestion of reward for being granted shelter, but that did not mean his keeper for the night would not seek to take it by force. A lifetime on these cruel streets had shown Laurent just how low a man could stoop, and he had vowed long ago to never be the one made to suffer such treatment. His grip on his knife tightened.

To his relief, the noise was simply the banging of a door against the stone walls of the stable, blown open by a gust of wind and left swinging with each renewed squall. He could climb down and close it, to give himself some semblance of peace amidst the snuffling of the horses and pungent collection of stenches in the stable, yet the prospect of being spotted by a wandering member of the City Guard was far more dangerous than a night spent in the cold.

He pulled more hay around himself and closed his eyes, praying that this time his sleep would not be disturbed by dreams of a life that could have almost been real.


	2. Chapter 2

At this time of the year, the dawn came late. Even without the frequent clouds surrounding the city's spires, the sky remained an inky dark until well after the city had begun to rouse for the morning. Laurent had little more than a passing awareness of the date most of the time, informed only by events within the city or overheard conversations, but he knew well enough when the seasons would turn, how long he would have on any given night before the dawn.

He was awake well before it, alone on the cobbled streets, save for the morning traders and the whores returning home to sleep until nightfall. It was the best time to move from wherever he had taken shelter for the night. The City Guard still patrolled, but they were few and far between, and in the faint light of approaching daybreak it was easy to slip out of sight of any patrols Laurent might stumble across.

Not all were so lucky.

Laurent heard the sound of a scuffle from two streets away. He slipped the hood of his weather-beaten cloak over his head and stuck to the long shadows as he inched closer to the scene.

Through the frenetic blur of a clutch of the City Guard, only a pair of legs kicking out from where they had been forced to the ground was visible, but the foul-mouthed tirade coming from their owner made his presence known well enough. Between grunts of pain he cursed the guards, cast aspersions on their mothers' professions, and gave more than a few suggestions as to where they could place their fists instead of upon his face. Of course, his every comment earned him another assault — his punishment for this latest infraction was almost certainly long over, and this continued beating a result of his insults — though Laurent was quite content to let him come to that realisation on his own.

He waited in silence, nestled out of sight in an alcove between two buildings, their residents somehow undisturbed by the tumult taking place beneath their windows, until the guards grew too bored or too tired to continue, and left to find the next vagrant to harass. Once they were the only two figures in the narrow street, Laurent strolled forward.

"What did you do this time?" He offered out a hand.

Nicaise scowled up at him, but he clasped Laurent's hand without argument — so there was a limit to his belligerence; Laurent had long feared otherwise — and allowed Laurent to pull him to his feet. He drew his other hand from where it had been clutched to his stomach. Thankfully, he had not been holding himself in pain.

In his hand was a loaf of bread. Nicaise had even managed to keep it protected from much of the dirt and blood of his morning adventure.

Laurent frowned at the sight of it. Even taking Nicaise's sharp tongue into consideration, a stolen loaf of bread was hardly a crime serious enough to warrant such a savage beating. Or it wouldn't have been, once. It did not seem to take much to put oneself on the wrong side of the Guard these days.

They headed back out of the street, the opposite direction the guards had travelled, and down the sloping path that led into the city square, traders already setting up their stalls for market day. The crowds would follow soon enough.

"What are we doing here?" Nicaise said, when Laurent took a seat on the steps beneath the clock tower.

"I like watching the people."

"Well I don't."

"You're under no obligation to stay."

Nicaise huffed and, to spite Laurent, perhaps, or perhaps because he had nowhere better to go, he dropped himself down onto the steps beside Laurent. He tore a piece of bread from his loaf and sat chewing in uncharacteristic silence for a moment, before, with apparent reluctance, he offered the loaf out to Laurent.

He shook his head. "You've earned it."

"You haven't eaten."

It was true; Laurent's last meal had been almost a full day ago, and to call it a meal at all would be a generous description. But food was always more scarce in the winter, the fields and orchards that lay just beyond the city walls which offered easy opportunity to help oneself the rest of the year now standing barren. Laurent was well trained in the art of ignoring the hollow feeling inside his stomach.

Besides, he already had a plan in place to secure his own breakfast. One hopefully tastier than Nicaise's hard-fought-for loaf of stale bread.

He dropped his hood back and brushed himself free of the last clutches of straw still nestled about his clothes and hair, and stood. Across the square, the doorway of a small tailor's shop had just opened, its owner making the first preparations for the day's trading. Laurent hurried towards him, rubbing at his cheeks to give them the flush of exertion.

"Kind sir," he said, feigning breathlessness, and the man looked towards him, eyes widening at the state of Laurent before him. Eavesdropped words from travelling merchants had schooled Laurent in the various accents to be heard throughout the country, and he easily slipped into the affectation of one, making sure to elongate his vowels in the way of the southern provinces. "Might I trouble you for a cup of water?"

"My word, boy, what has happened?"

Laurent shook his head, as if too shaken to put words to the events that had led him to the man's door, and he pressed a hand against the woodwork to steady himself.

"Come in, come in," the man said, and ushered Laurent inside the shop. He closed the door behind them, and led Laurent to a nearby chair. Laurent closed his eyes in grateful relief as he sank down into it.

"I had come to the capital to trade," he said, once the man had returned with a cup of cold water. "My wagon was waylaid on the road. My wares are mere trinkets, not worth much of anything, really, but they took everything I had."

The man looked appalled by Laurent's tale. It was a good sign; a sceptical man would not be peering back at him with such concern. And it was hardly a stretch of the imagination to believe a gang of thieves would ambush a wagon approaching the city. There was a reason so many traders kept their own guards.

"I will send word for the City Guard."

"No, no, no," said Laurent, holding up a trembling hand. "I would hate to trouble them with a complaint so insignificant. To tell you the truth, this whole affair has been rather embarrassing. I'd much sooner gather my wits and put this firmly behind me."

Grudgingly, the man nodded. "At least let me fetch you something to eat while you find your nerves again."

"Thank you," said Laurent. He had to fight hard to repress his grin when the man returned with a plate piled high with food. It was more than he had eaten in the past week.

"That took longer than stealing something," Nicaise said, when Laurent finally strolled back across the square to rejoin him.

"But it was more entertaining. And, as you can see, I've not landed myself at the end of a half-dozen guards' fists."

Nicaise scowled back at him. "Show off."

"Come along," said Laurent. He spared a quick glance back towards the shop, though thankfully the square had grown busy enough in Laurent's absence that if his kindly benefactor had looked out through his shop windows, he would not notice Laurent lingering. Still, it was better to be cautious. "We should get you cleaned up."

They managed only a few steps through the growing crowds, before Laurent felt the uncomfortable, creeping sensation that someone was trailing their steps. The guards would not be so subtle — had they cause to question the pair, they would stride righteous through the square until they could clap gloved hands on Laurent and Nicaise and haul them away. But if someone had seen through Laurent's ruse...

"Gentlemen." The voice was reassuringly familiar, and, his worries washing away, Laurent turned.

Aimeric was sauntering after them, the walk of the well-fucked. He was cleaner than Laurent had seen him in weeks, his hair and face scrubbed free of dirt, body clad in new clothes — not expensive, from the look of them, but a vast improvement on the mud-caked trousers and oversized shirt he had been wearing since the summer had departed Arles.

"There's little point asking where you found shelter last night, then," said Nicaise.

He smiled in response, a look that seemed as if it had meant to be coy but fell long short of the mark. "A merchant from Toutaine took a fancy to me," he explained, as if such a thing was a rare achievement. He had yet to realise that such propositions fell from the lips of just about every man that passed through Arles. It was cheaper to offer a few coins for a fuck to a boy on the streets than to visit a brothel.

"Lucky you." Laurent proffered a tight smile as he spoke. He had little care if Aimeric saw through it to the distaste beneath.

If he had, Aimeric ignored it. "Leave that," he said, eyeing the loaf in Nicaise's hand. "I'll buy us a proper meal."

Nicaise clutched the bread closer to his chest. He had fought too hard for it to so callously toss it aside.

"It will keep until tomorrow," said Laurent, as Aimeric turned and led the way through the square towards one of the winding streets that splintered off from it.

"I know that," Nicaise snapped, and he stalked after Aimeric, leaving Laurent to trail behind.

He was quite happy to linger at a safe distance. He could guess easily enough how the day would play out now: Aimeric would be too pleased with himself to keep his bragging in check, and Nicaise would lose what little patience he possessed, snapping at Aimeric until the pair devolved into flinging cruel insults each other's way. Some days Laurent found the whole spectacle amusing — he had been known to stoke the fires of animosity between the pair himself, on occasion, just to watch them take his bait — but after a night interrupted by too-vivid dreams, Laurent would much rather spend at least a few hours in blissful quiet. He didn't anticipate it happening, however.

"What about that one?"

The voice came from close enough for Laurent to overhear as he passed. The words were not Veretian. It wasn't unheard of, for tradesmen from neighbouring countries to travel to the Veretian capital, though it was still rare enough for Laurent to frown as he glanced back in the direction of the sound. There were two men stood in the shadow of the blacksmith's shop, built like soldiers, both tall and strong, their skin the warm bronze of the south. They could only be from Akielos.

"That's a woman," the tallest of the two men said.

His companion, the first to have spoken, shrugged in response. "Are we likely to find a man as pretty as you're convinced Prince Laurent would have grown to be?"

Laurent was so caught up with listening in to the pair's curious conversation that it took him a moment to notice Nicaise had apparently spotted him falling behind and returned.

"What are you staring at?" Nicaise said.

"Akielons," answered Laurent, nodding towards them, and Nicaise made a noise of disgust. "They're talking about Prince Laurent."

"How do _you_ understand Akielon?"

Laurent didn't answer. He was not sure he had an answer to give.

Nicaise snorted. "Well good luck finding him," he said. "They should search the forests; there might still be some bones to unearth."

"Do you really think he's dead?" That was Aimeric, come to join them as well. He looked almost disheartened by the suggestion that a boy prince would not have survived the uprising that had killed the rest of the royal family. Aimeric really was too naïve for his own good at times.

"Of course he's fucking dead. Do you think a pampered Veretian prince would survive these streets?"

Aimeric looked to Laurent.

Laurent had once thought it a cruel twist of fate, to be named after a prince of Vere when his own station could not be any farther from that gilded life. Considering the boy's likely fate, however, perhaps their luck wasn't so different, in the end. "Nicaise has a point," he said.

"Maybe somebody should tell them that," said Nicaise, nodding towards the Akielon pair still scanning the crowds.

"What do you think they want with him?"

"Nothing good, I imagine," said Laurent as he headed past Aimeric and Nicaise, and past the men with their strange plot.

He could not long escape it, however.

Aimeric had paid for a room in the closest, most disreputable inn they found, the kind of place in which nobody would look twice at a group of boys who had clearly not seen a bed or a bath in some time, where Laurent savoured the chance to scrub the filth from his skin and hair and Nicaise was able to tend to his scrapes gifted by the City Guard. The moment they had made their way back downstairs and claimed a table, the subject of the lost prince of Vere made itself known again, creeping in whispers around the room. The anniversary of the revolt against King Aleron had passed weeks earlier, the city — and no doubt the rest of the country beyond — partaking in the customary day of mourning, led by the Regent of Vere. Talk of the royals, and of the missing boy prince, did not usually linger this long afterwards.

"We've missed something," he said to Aimeric as he returned with three cups of ale.

He nodded. Conspiratorially, he leant in close, as if the patrons at every other table were not discussing the same matter. "They're saying the Queen of Kempt has grown so desperate to find her grandson she is offering a substantial reward for his recovery."

"So now everybody wants to find him," said Nicaise. He rolled his eyes and swallowed down a too-large gulp of ale, like he would rather make himself sick than bear witness to such foolishness.

"Or perhaps just someone close enough to convince."

Aimeric looked back at Laurent. "A fake, you mean?"

"Of course. When was the last time anybody laid eyes on the prince? All a man would need to be is blond and no-one would know the difference."

"Perhaps you should try it," replied Aimeric with a grin.

Laurent scoffed.

"This topic is boring," announced Nicaise, slamming his cup down to emphasise his point, liquid sloshing over the sides onto the table, already sticky from years of other spillages.

Laurent was inclined to agree. The lives of the nobility had little to do with people like them, and, perhaps with the exception of Aimeric, none of them were stupid enough to believe the Queen of Kempt would actually part with her money if someone of their standing delivered to her the supposed prince.

"I can pay for us to stay here tomorrow night as well," Aimeric said then, steering the conversation back to his favourite subject: himself. He looked from Laurent to Nicaise, wondering which of them would be the first to comment on his benevolence, an expectant air to the way he held himself too straight.

"Just as well," replied Laurent, his tone an affectation of nonchalance that belied the way his stomach growled at the mere smell of roasted foods filling the room, and how he yearned for the soft mattress awaiting him upstairs. Aimeric wasn't going to shut up about his accomplishment of opening his ass to someone unappealing enough to have to pay for it until one of them acknowledged it, though Laurent would sooner sleep in the filthiest gutter in Arles than say thank you. This was the way it worked between them; if one had managed to scrape together or steal enough money to purchase an actual room, they would all sleep in the warmth that night. Aimeric deserved no special praise for offering what he had gladly taken himself on many occasion. "There is snow in the air."

Nicaise looked across at him. "How can you tell?"

"I make it a habit to be aware of things that might kill me."

A woman Laurent presumed to be the innkeeper's wife weaved between the tables with practiced ease, three plates balanced atop her forearms, and with a smile that suggested she would only tolerate them as long as they could pay, she set their food in front of them. It was all Laurent could do to keep from devouring it like a starving animal. Nicaise was already making hungry noises of appreciation as he tucked in to his own plate.

The conversation had strayed too far from Aimeric, evidently, for he sat up in his seat and pointed his chin again. "Well, if it lingers I can get more money."

Nicaise scoffed. "Yes, and I'm going to walk into the palace barracks and proclaim myself head of the fucking Regent's Guard."

"He said he wanted to see me again."

Laurent remained silent under the guise of focusing on eating. His frustrations at Aimeric more often than not outweighed the reluctant affection he felt for him, though he didn't have the heart to dampen Aimeric's growing hopes of a life away from the filth and uncertainty of Arles' streets. Had he been born to a life of wealth and luxury and had it ripped painfully away from him, the way Aimeric had, he might clamour to return to it as well, no matter how idiotic that dream. Aimeric would learn for himself the perils of allowing oneself to hope for something better.

"Nobody is going to take a fucking street sleeper as a pet, Aimeric," said Nicaise. "You would be better off offering your services at Madame Helene's."

Aimeric narrowed his eyes. "I'm not a brothel whore."

"You're not a pet, either."

"It can't be that hard, can it?"

"You need years of training," said Laurent, his only observation which he ventured to share.

"How could you possibly know about the training regimen of a fucking pet?" Aimeric replied, scathing now in his growing frustration. "It's not like you will ever be able to afford one."

Laurent gazed down at his plate. Aimeric did have a point; the closest Laurent had ever come to one was catching sight of their gaudy silks and jewels as they paraded themselves through the more respectable streets of the city on the arms of their owners, or helping himself to an unsupervised coin purse attached to an overdressed hip as they haggled for more trinkets at the markets. He had certainly never seen one perform. Maybe he had imagined that morsel of a fact.

He shrugged, and speared a chunk of meat onto his fork. "Everybody knows that," he said, before taking a bite.

They ate in relative silence after that, their need to fill their oft-empty bellies overpowering even Nicaise's urge to bicker. By the time they had finished, the chattering sounds of dozens upon dozens of people that had been building grew too loud to ignore.

It was coming from outside.

A girl of around Laurent's age poked her head through the doorway and scanned the room, eyes wild with the fires of excitement. She grinned wide when her gaze landed on the group sat at the table next to Laurent's.

"They're in the square; come on," she said, before disappearing onto the street again.

The group beside them stood and hurried after her. It launched a ripple of interest throughout the room, each table emptying and pouring out of the inn, until eventually Nicaise threw down his fork and jumped to his feet as well. Aimeric was quick to follow.

Laurent sighed, and resigned himself to it.

Despite his urge to head upstairs and sleep for as long as his body would let him, he followed the other patrons back out onto the street, where they joined a steady stream of people that swept Laurent and the others towards the square, as if they were being summoned by the clock tower chiming noon. Through the crowds he caught sight of the Akielon pair, watching the action unfurl with wary curiosity. Laurent felt much the same himself.

Across the square, past the market where buyers and vendors alike had paused to witness what was unfolding, there were a clutch of figures stood atop the wooden dais. Laurent couldn't remember the last time he had seen it in use. His steps slowed. There was little question anymore as to the cause of the commotion.

He should have remained at the inn.

Between the gleaming, over-buffed armour and red capes that marked the members of the City Guard, a boy who looked no more than a year or two older than Nicaise was hauled forward. Even from a distance, Laurent could tell the boy was starving; a beggar, perhaps, or simply the product of parents with too many children and not enough coin. A guard addressed the crowd, announcing the boy's crimes — which amounted to little more than stealing scraps from the local fishmongers — and his punishment. He would be relieved of his hands.

Many among the gathered masses cheered and brayed for a harsher sentence, a bigger show for them to later brag about having witnessed, but, nearby, Laurent heard the familiar noises of disgust. It was a rare thing for it not to be aimed his way, but that was not the only reason he was comforted by its sound. Cruelty was too common a trait in Arles.

The sound was followed by voices in Akielon.

"And they call us barbarians," one said.

"Damen, _do_ _not_ _interfere_." From the man's tone of voice, it sounded as if that happened often.

Laurent almost wished he would. It would be a far more entertaining spectacle than this.

"I'm not going to."

Back on the dais, the boy was being dragged, weak-limbed, to the wooden block stood at the nearest edge to the crowd, and had his hands placed upon it while one of the guards drew his sword. The clamour of the hordes rose to fevered levels, until it was stilled to silence by the thud of steel connecting with wood. The boy's screams ended the moment's calm, chilling Laurent's blood and raising bile in his throat, and the crowd erupted again.

Laurent looked over to Nicaise. He was stood wide-eyed and pale. It was easy to forget at times how young he was, but now he looked every inch the child, the world-weariness that narrowed his eyes and curled his lips into a sneer shocked out of him by the sight to which they had found themselves witness.

"Are you all right?"

Nicaise gave a terse nod, and turned to head back in the direction of the inn, while the crowds dissipated again now that the day's entertainment was over. Laurent followed, and Aimeric was at his side soon after.

"The Guard is getting worse every year," he said to Laurent.

Laurent said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the downer ending, folks, but on the bright side, next chapter we get to see more of Damen and Nikandros!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, folks. Real life has been very much in my way this month. Hopefully updates will be more regular going forward.

On the darkened stage, the lost prince of Vere was standing. There was another not ten feet from him, and a clutch more waiting at the edge of the faded, moth-bitten curtains for their turn to make their own case. Damen was fast growing weary of the sight of blond hair.

Nikandros would probably be quite glad of that. Damen chose to keep the observation to himself.

"You realise, of course," he said in Veretian, forcing a smile to his face, "that Prince Laurent is blond."

"Oh." Behind curling tendrils of dark brown hair, the man's face fell. He looked young enough that he likely had no recollection at all of the late royal family, though Damen would have expected most Veretians to have at least taken a glimpse at a portrait of them over the last six years. They couldn't all have been destroyed in the uprising that had taken the lives of the king and his family.

Nikandros didn't have Damen's patience for this. "Thank you," he cut in, gesturing for the next Laurent to step forward.

He sauntered towards them, swinging his hips, as if his idea of how a prince might walk had been informed entirely by the travelling shows that so often performed farcical, tasteless re-enactments of the royal family's demise. At least this one was actually blond, Damen supposed. He reached the edge of the stage, tossed his hair over his shoulder, and placed a hand on his hip.

"Next," said Nikandros.

By the time the stream of hopeful imitators had slowed to a trickle, and eventually dried up completely, Damen was struggling with a long, deep yawn that had been clawing to escape his chest for what felt like the last hour. It was only the discipline instilled in him during his military service that had kept him sat upright all this time. That, and the knowledge that letting his weariness show would only earn him another lecture from Nikandros.

He suspected he was going to get one anyway.

Nikandros strode to the back door of the old theatre and placed the heavy, rusting chains back into position, with more eagerness than Damen had seen from him since their boyhood days exploring the lands outside Ios' palace. However tedious Damen had found this, for Nikandros it was sure to be worse. This was Damen's idea, after all. When he turned back to join Damen again, there was a strange kind of hesitance to his approach. He looked at Damen with concerned eyes.

"Damianos," he began, too delicately, "how are you, really?"

"Where are you going with this, Nikandros?"

"I know the events of these last months have weighed heavily on you."

Damen sighed. He was in no mood for this dancing conversation. "Speak plainly," he said, climbing to his feet and stretching muscles stiffened by inactivity. He sidled along the row of too-hard benches — a world away from the sickening Veretian intemperance he had experienced the few times he had visited the capital with his father in his youth. The former royal box, high above where Damen stood, would most certainly be more in keeping with that level of extravagance, if he ever ventured into the upper portions of the building to find out. The floors would probably collapse should he dare to, judging by the state of repair throughout the rest of the theatre.

He didn't look back as he turned in the opposite direction from the stage door. Nikandros would follow him.

The cautious demeanour Nikandros had adopted had dropped away when Damen did glance over at him again. It was as if it had never existed at all. His expression was hard, though Damen took more comfort in that look than in any other. Even as a boy, Nikandros had been pensive more often than not. His tendency towards caution had steered Damen away from too many scrapes over the years.

Except when Damen had been too foolish to listen to his words of warning.

"I question the sanity of this scheme of yours," replied Nikandros.

"And my own sanity, by extension."

He did not deny it. "Even for you, this is unconventional," he said.

Damen climbed through the stalls. Nikandros was still at his heels, as he had been throughout all of this. "You've seen how well convention has served me."

He buttoned his waistcoat and jacket while they made their way through the long-abandoned foyer to the main doors doing a pitiful job of keeping the winter air at bay. Damen was still no more used to the cold than he had been upon his arrival in Vere. He had no desire to stay long enough to grow accustomed to it, however.

"You cannot be blamed for Kastor's treacherous ways."

The name brought a stab of pain to Damen's chest, the familiar sensation of a blade being plunged into his most vulnerable parts. It was as fresh now as it had been months ago. He swallowed it down. "Maybe not. But the longer we remain here, the harder it will be to return to Ios."

"We have time."

"We don't. Kastor has Akielos' army to command. He has the full support of the Kyroi." He did now, at least, having driven Nikandros out of Delpha after Damen. Anybody else in Akielos who had remained loyal to Damen had probably suffered the same fate by now.

The sudden absence of Nikandros' soft footsteps behind Damen's was the only sign that he had stopped in his tracks. Damen came to a halt as well, one hand still clinging to the door handle that may as well have been made of ice, and looked back at him.

"Makedon has vowed to support him?" Nikandros said.

"Makedon loved my father as a brother," said Damen. He curled his hand around the metal tighter, as if the cold could seep through his palm and consume him, the way ice had seemed to fill his brother's veins without Damen noticing and left him unmoved by the horror he had inflicted upon his own family. Had Damen been in possession of a heart of ice, he might have already found the strength to march back to Ios and confront Kastor. "If he believed me to be his murderer, he would honour Kastor's claim to the throne."

"If he believed you would murder Theomedes, he is a bigger fool than he looks."

Damen smiled, weakly. It was as much as he could muster these days. "Yes," he said. "But here we are, all the same. I can set foot in Akielos again at the head of my own forces, or not at all."

"But this madness, though?" Nikandros looked back towards the starved belly of the theatre. "There must be other ways to secure an army."

There was a pleading kind of helplessness in Nikandros' tone, and Damen could no longer meet his eyes. Nikandros had not asked for any of this. His only crime was befriending Damen as a boy, yet under Kastor's rule, that was a crime which came with a heavy punishment.

"I wish that were true," said Damen, and he pulled open the door to step out onto the street. The cold hit him like a fist. He dipped his chin against the snow whipping around them on the unforgiving wind, and set off with Nikandros in search of a stiff, warming drink. A glance around at the figures they passed, ensuring no eyes were on them, and he lowered his voice as he continued. "The Regent of Vere will not involve himself in a potential civil war when the peace between our nations is still so fragile. Patras might be sympathetic to my cause, perhaps, but even the full strength of its army could not outmatch Akielon soldiers fighting on their own lands. Vask has no organised military to speak of. Kempt is the only one with an army that could rival Akielos', and Queen Mathilde the only one whose support I could hope to secure."

Grudgingly, Nikandros gave a nod so small Damen wondered if Nikandros had hoped he would not notice it. "An alliance built on dishonesty is not a stable one," he said, one final voice of dissent — or so Damen hoped. "It will crumble the moment the truth is revealed."

Then they had best not let it. Given the acting skills of the potential Laurents they had seen so far, though, that was going to be something of a challenge.

"I like this no more than you do," replied Damen. They came to a stop outside a tavern, the sounds of a rowdy patronage already seeping out into the bitter air; perfect for a pair of obvious outsiders to attempt to enjoy a drink without being accosted. "But I want to go home."

After the sickening display in the marketplace yesterday, Damen was even more desperate to leave the city. They executed criminals in Ios as well, of course, but never in front of a mob clamouring for blood, and never did they dole out such harsh punishments for so minor a crime. Damen thought of the boy, still whimpering as he had been dragged from the stage. He hoped the poor child had not been left dumped in the streets to bleed to death. Sadly, it would not surprise him.

Nikandros had perhaps sensed where Damen's mind had gone. He looked back at Damen with sympathetic eyes, and pushed open the door to the tavern. "We will renew our efforts tomorrow, then," he said, albeit with some reluctance, and nodded for Damen to step inside ahead of him.

For now, they would drink, and eat, and hope that for the span of a meal, at least, they could forget about both the king of Akielos and the prince of Vere.

By the time he had taken two steps into the tavern, Damen had realised that wasn't going to happen. The room was abuzz in a way that only tended to happen in the midst of some great excitement, and it wasn't long before he heard the name Laurent uttered in heated debate. From the sound of it, even after six years public opinion was split on whether or not the prince was still alive somewhere.

It was some relief. If everyone believed Prince Laurent dead, it would be harder to convince the world he had been found.

"Be needing a room?" said a middle-aged woman shuffling towards them, eyeing first Damen, then Nikandros, as if she could tell with a look the kind of room they could afford. Whatever answer she had surmised, she didn't seem impressed by the sight of them. As Akielons in Vere, though, that was something of a common reaction.

"No, thank you."

She turned and moved away again without another word. Damen wasn't sure her reaction would have been much different had he said yes. He glanced back to Nikandros, already nodding in response to Damen's unuttered command and turning to pick his way through the room in search of the most shadowed, inconspicuous table he could find. Damen headed in the other direction, towards the counter already teeming with half-drunk Veretians demanding their next cup. By virtue of his height, he was the next to catch the innkeeper's attention.

His wasn't the only attention Damen had caught. Drinks in hand and the promise of food on the way, Damen turned, and almost immediately collided with a man with the look of a stoat, and the stench of the dead. The man did not flinch, nor move to take a step back.

"You're the Akielon, aren't you?" he said.

Damen could pretend not to speak Veretian, he supposed, though if the man already knew Damen by reputation, he would most likely see through Damen's attempt to avoid a conversation. Damen looked back at him warily.

"They say you're after the prince of Vere."

"Do they?"

The man glanced sidelong across the room, and leant in closer to breathe his alcohol-drenched words into Damen's face. Damen made note to inhale through his mouth for the remainder of this exchange. "I know of a boy; not well bred, but he's fair-haired, and pretty — prettier than any other boy you'll find who's not already put to use sucking cocks in the palace. Nobody would have to know he isn't the real prince."

Damen took a long gulp of his drink. It was too sour, the grapes this far north unable to hold a torch to the fine varieties grown in Akielos, but it distracted him while he waited for the inevitable.

"So how much is the queen offering?"

He blinked. He had expected talk of a reward to turn to how much Damen was willing to pay for finding the boy. "The queen?"

"She'd be prepared to pay anything for her grandson, by my reckoning. And you know those Kemptians can afford it, too, the price they charge for their blasted silks."

"Excuse me," Damen said. He shuffled away, praying the man would not follow, and rejoined Nikandros sat among the shadows in the corner of the room. The only people passing this way were those climbing the stairs to their rooms, already too stupid with drink to do anything but fall into bed. None of them would pay Damen and Nikandros any mind.

Nikandros took a sip of his own wine when Damen slid the cup over to him, and after only a single gulp he cursed. Damen had probably looked much the same upon tasting it as Nikandros did now, his expression pinched and unpleasant.

But Damen had more urgent thoughts than those of wine.

"Have you been telling people Queen Mathilde is offering a reward?"

"I don't want to tell people anything at all."

Nikandros looked about the room, where many of its inhabitants were still loudly discussing the prince of Vere, and what they would do with the spoils they would earn for handing him over. If they thought there was profit to be had in this, every Veretian with enough cunning to proclaim himself looking out for the interests of their chosen Laurent would insist on joining them to secure his payment, and would not be best pleased to learn there was none. Damen frowned at that thought. This would not be an easy rumour to dispel.

"We should have known talk would spread," said Nikandros.

"Whispers of payment aside," Damen said, "that is a good thing, isn't it? It makes this easier." If sitting through the droves of vaguely pale, vaguely blond Veretians that had been coming through their door in increasing number could be considered easier than scanning crowded marketplaces for the right man. Both were tedious in their own way, and so far neither had wielded results.

As he spoke footsteps grew closer, not the stumble of drunken feet, but the quick tapping of someone walking with purpose. Damen just had time to look up before the woman who had greeted them was unceremoniously dropping a plate to the table in front of each of them. He popped a lump of tepid meat into his mouth, and chewed. And kept chewing.

"Yes," Nikandros replied, once they had watched the woman skulk back towards the kitchens, "until the wrong person catches wind of it. I'm sure the Regent of Vere would be very keen to know the location of his nephew."

The Regent. Of course. His guards were everywhere in the city, though perhaps too busy relieving children of body parts to relay the message that a pair of Akielons were planning to deliver Prince Laurent to Kempt. They could not take that risk, though. If the Regent discovered that they had supposedly located Laurent, the boy would not be leaving the city. And not even the return of the lost prince would prompt Vere to wade into yet another war with Akielos.

Damen nodded, and rubbed at his jaw with his fingertips. "We can't stop people talking," he said. He took a gulp of wine to wash away the taste of his food, and wished he hadn't.

"No. But we could take our leave of Arles before it catches up with us."

"And try again in another city?"

Chastillon was only a short ride, he supposed. It was not so much a city but a fort surrounded by a clutch of houses, but there would be no harm in searching while they journeyed south. While its closer proximity to the border, and Kempt beyond, made Arles the perfect place to search, it could not be the only Veretian town in possession of fair-skinned, blond-haired men.

"If we must."

In silence they each picked at their food, braving to take a mouthful every now and then, as the familiar sense of longing for the comforts of Akielos crept up on Damen. The sensation had never fully left him, a painful gnawing in his chest that he could at least try to ignore, but at times it would strike with renewed intensity, and it was all Damen could do to keep himself from sinking fully into despair.

He scowled down at his plate. In Ios, a meal such as this would not be considered fit to feed the palace dogs.

Damen had grown used to a roughened life away from the palace, of cold, uncomfortable nights and meals that were barely enough to sustain a man, as a soldier. He had taken it in his stride then. He had been doing his duty. He had been defending his home and his people, and sacrificing his own comfort was an easy price to pay for them both. Now, however; now it was like being spat on at his lowest.

"There's a blond man across the room," Nikandros remarked, stirring Damen from his thoughts.

Damen didn't look up. Under other circumstances, he would have taken a moment to enjoy the incongruity of Nikandros pointing out blonds to Damen rather than fighting desperately to keep him away from them. He dropped his fork onto his empty plate, glad to not have to suffer another bite. "Have we seen him before?" he said.

"Probably. It's hard to keep track."

With a non-committal hum, Damen sat back in his seat, reached into his pocket, and tossed a handful of coins onto the table before moving to stand. He was in no mood to stretch this day out any longer.

"Damen," Nikandros said, in hushed tones, his eyes wide. "Was your meal so good you have no desire for another this week?"

He looked down at the coins: enough to pay for a great deal more than one pair of unpleasant meals. With a glance back across the room to make sure the matron had not been summoned by the sound of tinkling coins, Damen scooped many of them back up and returned them to his pocket. This too was an experience for which he had no patience.

"I've had my fill of this place," he said, and Nikandros nodded in agreement. Had he not, Damen would have still turned to leave. Perhaps it was that sour mood reflected on his features that kept the pair from being accosted on their way back across the room. Or perhaps, judging by the state of many around them, the other patrons were by this point too drunk to stand.

"It's not quite The Queen's Ransom," said Nikandros, once they had stepped out into the streets.

Damen couldn't help but smile at the thought of the inn, the best in Ios by its own proclamation. Its position close to the palace had made it a popular spot for travellers, and just about everybody else in the city, Damen and Nikandros included. They had earned more than their share of trouble in that place.

"I would have thought you'd be grateful of that," he said. "Ambrus is still waiting for you to marry his daughter."

"He'll have tried to barter the poor girl off to somebody else in lieu of payment by now, I'm sure."

Looking up from the icy cobblestones to the buildings looming over their heads, Damen paused in his steps and frowned. "Is this the way we came?"

One of Damen's greatest joys in life had been losing himself on the streets of Ios, taking a new turn and delighting in where it led him, be it a previously unknown store purveying stunning pottery, or the bed of a beautiful woman. The twisting, labyrinthine rats' nest of Veretian streets was one he had no interest in exploring at the best of times. With the snow falling thicker and heavier now, the sky an endless stretch of white above them, and any recognisable landmarks quickly being buried from sight, this was decidedly not the best of times.

"Yes." Nikandros pointed forward, beneath the arch where a building spanned both sides of the narrow street, to a shape in the distance just visible through the snow. "That's the fountain outside the theatre."

A grateful sigh, and they pressed on.

Damen's relief was soon to dissipate, however.

In the darkness outside, the glimmer of flames through the crack in the theatre doors was like a sliver of daylight escaping. "You left no lights burning?" Damen said to Nikandros, the words little more than breath misting on the air.

"None."

Damen nodded, and reached to draw the knife from his hip. It was hardly equal to a sword, but with his own sword, perhaps his most valuable possession, lost in the fight that had seen him ripped from his father's bedside and dragged to the cells beneath the palace, it would have to do. Still, he flexed for the weight of a steel longsword in his hands as he pushed the doors open and stepped into the theatre.

Inside, a lone figure was stood studying the faded murals on the walls, shrouded by the tattered cloak they had wrapped around themselves. They made no movement of surprise at the sound of Damen and Nikandros' entrance. They had expected to find the pair here, then — though neither the Veretian City Guard nor any men sent by Kastor to track Damen down would make the mistake of confronting him alone. Their guest was here for something other than a fight, it seemed, yet Damen was not sure that that was better than the alternative. A fight against one man he could win without trouble.

"State your business," Damen said, and with the lazy air of one pulled from something far more interesting, the figure turned to face him and Nikandros, and pulled back their cloak.

Even beneath the haughty expression on the young man's face, as if he had been waiting for their arrival at a great inconvenience to himself for some time, he was striking enough to bring Damen's footsteps to a halt. With a voice more refined than the state of his clothes would have suggested, he spoke.

"I have a proposition for you."


	4. Chapter 4

Nikandros stepped forward, not quite placing himself between Damen and their visitor, but close enough that if the young man did prove to have violent intentions, Nikandros could move to defend his prince before he reached striking distance. Damen could not imagine he would need the help, though. He had fought far more imposing men than this in battle and survived intact. And, two months removed from the palace and its vast training grounds, Damen would probably be grateful of the practice.

"How did you know where to find us?" said Nikandros.

"I saw you in the tavern. You were easy enough to follow. For men of your standing," the man added, his eyes on Damen, "I would imagine you'd want to be careful of that."

A cold clutch of panic in Damen's chest. He swallowed it down. "Standing?" he said, fighting to keep his voice mild.

"Criminals. You are hardly being subtle, are you?"

"For having a meal at an inn," said Nikandros. His demeanour gave nothing away. "I was not aware that that was a crime, even in Vere."

The man turned his scathing attention to Nikandros again, as if his argument barely dignified a response yet he was being forced to give one anyway. "Perhaps not. But claiming an imposter to be the Prince of Vere most certainly is."

Damen and Nikandros met one another's eyes. Without even drawing his gaze downwards, Damen knew Nikandros was flexing his grip on the blade in his hand.

"I heard you discussing your plot in the market square yesterday," the man went on, "within easy earshot of anyone in possession of even a rudimentary knowledge of your tongue. And again tonight, thanks to a very loud, very drunk man with a head full of the rumours spreading throughout the city."

Not for the first time tonight, Damen cursed his Veretian accoster.

"Is this why you're here?" said Damen. "To try and extort a fee for your silence?"

The man smiled. It was an expression without warmth or mirth. Damen preferred the man's scowl. "No," he replied. "You two are going to take me to Kempt."

Nikandros laughed. Damen didn't. He was looking the man up and down, scouring for more than concealed weapons and potential spots of weakness this time. He did have blond hair, and a certain arrogance to his stance that was perhaps not unique among Veretians, but definitely in keeping with what Damen remembered of the members of King Aleron's court.

Given a thorough scrubbing and a visit to a respectable tailor, the man could well look like a prince.

"Let's talk business, shall we?" said the man.

Before either Damen or Nikandros could give any kind of response, he had turned and gone sauntering through the doors that led to the stalls. Nikandros looked back at Damen in disbelief. He had still not loosened his grip on his weapon.

Damen shrugged in return. "There is no harm in hearing him out."

As he walked back into the stalls himself, he was sure he heard Nikandros mutter something that sounded remarkably like, " _Veretians_ ," before he followed with shuffling, reluctant footsteps.

The man was already nearing the stage. There was a dreamlike quality to him that Damen wasn't sure was from the way the dancing light caught his pale hair or from his own movements, looking about the theatre with an air Damen couldn't quite pinpoint. He stopped below the stage, running his hand along its edge with a soft frown, as Damen came to join him.

He watched the strange ritual in silence for a moment. The man seemed to have forgotten Damen was even there.

"What's your name?"

"Laurent." He looked back at Damen with an expression that dared him to scoff.

Damen did it anyway.

"It's a common name."

"Not that common," said Damen.

The man rolled his eyes and turned to climb up onto the stage with a grace that suggested long legs and an athleticism Damen hadn't expected from his slight form. Damen clambered up after him just as easily, and they walked past the faded backdrop nobody had bothered to take down after the theatre's final performance into the backstage area. Laurent studied it all carefully, peering into the shadows as if he was waiting for someone to spring out at him.

"There are no others inside the building," Damen said.

"I imagine the two of you would be in a great deal of trouble by now if there were."

Forgotten amidst the jumble of old stage dressings there was a pair of thrones, as decrepit as everything else within these walls, and Laurent sprawled himself on the grander of the two. Even beneath the cobwebs strung between throne's carved towers and arches, it was more ostentatious than anything Damen had seen, and he couldn't tell if it was intended to be an exaggeration of the real Veretian throne or an exact replica. He had seen King Aleron sat straight-backed and gracious in his throne only once, as a teen accompanying his father to Arles in celebration of the first year of peace between their nations. The throne itself had been the last thing to capture his notice, however; he had been too overwhelmed by the monstrosity of the rest of the gilded palace, and too busy wishing Kastor was at his side to join Damen in his scorn. Veretian attitudes towards bastards had, naturally, forbidden it, and Kastor had remained in Ios, far from the nauseating displays of wealth in the Veretian capital.

The gold coating this throne was fake, at least. It would have been melted down years ago had it not been. But real or not, there was something to the sight of Laurent sat on a throne like he owned it, even if both were in too shabby a condition to convince just yet. A creeping sense of familiarity worked its way up Damen's spine.

"To business, then," he said. He folded his arms across his chest, and met Laurent's level gaze head-on. "Why should we choose you?"

"Because blonds are not so plentiful in Arles that you have a great deal of choice." His voice was smooth with the easy confidence of knowing he was right. "I've seen the state of some of your other contenders. They aren't nearly as pretty as I am."

"Nor as modest?" Nikandros said, though Laurent's gaze remained on Damen, pointedly ignoring the barb.

"The Prince of Vere would be twenty," said Damen. "Are you of a similar age?" Though Laurent was almost as tall as Damen and Nikandros, and with the look of a man — just — he would not be the first to develop before his years. Damen himself had grown larger than his father and Kastor both by the time he was fourteen. He would not take any chances.

There was a flash of what could have been uncertainty in Laurent's eyes. It was the first hint that maybe he wasn't in total control after all. Damen allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at that.

"Do you know?"

Hearing the trace of sympathy in Damen's voice, perhaps, Laurent was steely eyed again, straightening to his full height in his seat with a manner that suggested he could be lethal if given the push. "How old do you think I am?" he shot back, his voice colder than much Damen had experienced in Arles' late winter.

Young enough to cause even the most respectable man a great deal of trouble, Damen answered privately, and old enough to know exactly how much.

"Do you really understand what you would be agreeing to?"

"Journeying to Kempt — without guard, I imagine — securing an audience with Queen Mathilde, and somehow managing to convince her, her court, and perhaps the Veretian council that I am a man nobody has seen for the better part of a decade, at the risk of execution should I be exposed as an imposter," Laurent answered. He was slumped back in the throne again, sounding almost bored by the scheme. "Did I miss anything?"

"Why would you want to come with us? Is your life here so terrible that you would put yourself at such risk just for a chance of something better?"

Laurent studied him for a moment, before shifting in his seat to peer past Damen's shoulder to Nikandros with the overdramatic movements of a performer. "Is this the speech he gives to everybody?"

"No," said Nikandros. He was looking at Damen strangely when Damen glanced back at him. "It isn't."

Laurent looked to be storing that information away somewhere for later contemplation as his gaze returned to Damen. "I'm curious," he said, "what the two of you hope to gain from this. A life adjacent to luxury as the prince's personal guard? There must be a reason the risk is worth it for you."

"That's none of your concern," Nikandros cut in, before Damen could even attempt to respond.

To someone of Laurent's character, from what Damen had judged of it throughout this encounter, such a blunt response would not, as Nikandros hoped, put an end to the discussion. But rather than persist on the subject now that Nikandros' obvious avoidance had lit the spark of intrigue, Laurent simply raised an eyebrow. With the same flourish that he had sunk into it, Laurent rose from his seat and came to stand back in front of Damen, closer than he had before. Piercing blue eyes stared up at him. "I know the dangers," Laurent said. They were the first earnest words Damen had heard from him.

Nikandros' voice sliced between the two of them. "Damen," he said. "A word."

He was already stalking away when Damen looked back in his direction, and didn't stop until they were out of Laurent's earshot. The expression on his face was one Damen had seen on too many occasions before, and not once had he enjoyed the conversation that followed.

"You're going to choose him."

"I am," said Damen.

"It shouldn't be him. Any of the men we have seen would be better."

Part of Damen was inclined to agree. Laurent was clearly intelligent — too intelligent, and belligerent enough that he would have no qualms about betraying Damen and Nikandros to suit his own ends if given the slightest opportunity. Yet they had wasted too much time in Arles already to continue the search for an alternative. And, unpleasant as he was, Laurent did have one striking advantage over the other men they had seen.

"No, they wouldn't."

Damen nodded for Nikandros to follow him, past the mess of abandoned furnishings, past their bed rolls still laid out from the few hours they had each slept the night before, towards a small room under the staircase. There was no longer much of interest inside, except for an old portrait with a broken frame.

"I found this hidden in here," said Damen, and he lifted the portrait out for Nikandros to take a look. "Someone probably thought it would be worth something."

Nikandros was unimpressed. "The royal family," he said. "What does this prove? The boy is too young to recognise him fully grown."

"I'm not looking at the boy."

He pointed, not at the image of Prince Laurent sat at Queen Hennike's side, no older than eight years of age, a pensive expression on his young face almost as if he had known then what fate had lay in store for him, but to the other side of the painting. Crown Prince Auguste was stood tall and noble, and the spitting image of the man still somewhere within the maze of the theatre.

Nikandros stared in silence for a moment. When it came, his only reaction was to let out a heavy, yielding sigh.

Before Damen could say another word, the creak of footsteps on aged floorboards came from behind, and he turned. Laurent was staring at the painting as well. That strange look was back on his face, intensified now, his lips a thin line, brows furrowed deeply. He stepped forward to get a better look at the portrait.

"What is it?" said Damen.

Damen would have believed Laurent had not heard, lost in his own mind somewhere, if he had not reached, trancelike, beneath the neckline of his shirt. He pulled a gold chain free, and Damen's eyes widened when he saw what hung from its fine links.

There was every chance the pendant was simply a cheap replica of the one adorning Prince Auguste's neck; imitations of royal jewels were a common find among marketplaces in Akielos, and Vere was almost certain to have a greater obsession with such things. But from the way Laurent was gazing between the golden starburst in his palm and the one in the painting, as if judging whether they were truly as identical as all three of them could tell, it seemed he was even more surprised by the likeness than Damen and Nikandros.

"Where did you get that?" Nikandros said.

Those words jolted Laurent from the reverie he had fallen into. He curled his palm around the necklace and held it tight to his chest. "I didn't steal it," he said, his tone as sharp as the glare he levelled at Nikandros. He tucked the chain back out of sight, and seemed to wrestle his thoughts down with it.

When he returned his attention to Damen and Nikandros, it was with the same expression of haughty defiance on his face.

"I trust you have no further objections?"

Damen turned to Nikandros. "I think he's more than convincing enough."

"Before we agree to anything" Nikandros said, resigned to the fact that an agreement was inevitable, but still perhaps hoping for a way to avoid it. "There is another matter we have not discussed. Should you manage to convince Queen Mathilde of your identity—" he said this with great incredulity "—next year you could stand in line to inherit the throne of Vere. Do you think you would go unrecognised to the people here in Arles?"

"How many people do you think pay attention to the beggars clutching at their heels in the city?"

Well, Damen was certainly paying attention. He had the keen sense that if he turned his back on Laurent, he would soon find a knife buried in it. This would be a more difficult journey than he had anticipated, but they would at least have the weeks' journey to Kempt to attempt to train the sharpness out of Laurent's tongue.

"Name your terms," he said. "I expect you have plenty."

Laurent was the picture of innocence gazing back at him, as if the thought of being difficult was as foreign to him as any other. He'd not be able to keep that guise up for long, Damen suspected.

"Very well. When will you be fit to leave?"

"As soon as you are. I only have a handful of personal effects to collect."

Damen nodded. He and Nikandros had been gathering supplies for the journey in anticipation since the day they had hatched the plot. He had, of course, expected to have had need for them long before now. "Then we will set off in the morning."

Without a departing word — not that Damen had expected such pleasantries — Laurent turned to head back out of the theatre. He didn't make it far before his footsteps halted.

"Oh," said Laurent, without a trace of evidence in his tone that something had really slipped his mind, "I do have one stipulation: at no point will either one of you be putting your cock inside me." He eyed them each in turn as if he genuinely expected them to. Damen wasn't sure if he had a low opinion of the two of them or just an exceptionally high opinion of himself.

Nikandros made a noise from beside Damen. He ignored it.

"Rest assured, your dignity will remain intact."

Laurent stared back at Damen, his eyes hard, arms folded across his chest. Even with his weathered clothes and features gaunt from poor nutrition, he was a severe presence. Laced into the elaborate Veretian finery that had always been popular, to Damen's personal bemusement, he would make for a striking prince. Finally, he seemed to accept Damen's answer, or was satisfied that the threat implicit in his gaze had had its impact, and Laurent disappeared into the darkness of the inner theatre.

"I don't like this," said Nikandros, once he and Damen were alone, no sounds within the building but the faint howl of the wind battering its walls.

"If it makes you feel any better, neither do I. Get some sleep; I'll take the first watch."

He wasn't sure he would be able to sleep himself. The years sat in on his father's war councils, watching the men consider not just strategies for campaigns but the food and provisions needed for months on the march, had trained him well in preparing for this journey north, yet still the sense persisted in him that he was not ready. He had thought of nothing but returning to Ios since his exile, but only now did it feel like something more than an abstract notion. If they did everything perfectly, he would soon have the means to reclaim his throne from Kastor. If they didn't…

Damen moved into the stalls to take a final inventory of the supplies he and Nikandros had been gathering, if only to soothe the unsteadiness of his stomach. He already knew that they had all the provisions they would be able to secure ahead of time. Of all the things that could go wrong, running out of food was the least likely. It was Laurent that Damen was more worried about. The threat of betrayal aside, Damen couldn't imagine that Laurent would grow more tolerable over a weeks-long ride in close quarters through harsh conditions.

A sound from towards the lobby drew Damen's attention. He froze in place, the room silent around him until the noise came again, soft as a breeze. Not the wind against the doors; not even the sound of people outside, conducting their business under cover of darkness. It was someone inside the building. Damen's knife was in hand, and he was on his feet moving towards the intrusion.

He should have known letting Laurent wander back out into the city alone would be a bad idea. He had probably gone straight to the City Guard to see what reward he could gain for their arrest. Why risk Queen Mathilde's rejection when he could earn some small payment without setting foot outside of Arles?

Damen was just reaching a hand for the doors, braced for a fight, when they swung wide open. It was Laurent stood on the other side, snow still fresh on his cloak and a battered satchel slung across his body. He was alone. He met Damen's gaze and simply carried on walking, as if there was nothing strange to him breaking into the place for the second time that night, hours ahead of their arranged meeting.

Damen put his knife away and let himself breathe again, though his annoyance was still fresh. It would be no concern to Laurent, of course.

"Does time pass differently here in Arles?" he said mildly.

"In case it had slipped your notice, I am a vagrant," Laurent replied, his tone as acid. "Decrepit as this place may be, it has a roof, and some measure of protection against the cold." He pushed past Damen to head down into the stalls. "I'm sure there is space enough in this building for me to sleep."

Damen shook his head, though he watched Laurent go without argument, and stalked off in the opposite direction. And Laurent was right, at least: the theatre was large enough that he and Laurent could disappear into opposite corners, no doubt both pretending the other wasn't there.

They didn't see one another again until the morning.

"There's one more thing I have to do before we leave," Laurent announced, absent greeting, while Damen and Nikandros were busying themselves with the last of the morning's preparations.

"I'll accompany you," said Damen.

A small, cruel smile pulled at one corner of Laurent's thin lips at that. "Are you worried I'm going to run to the Regent of Vere and let him know your plans?"

"A little."

Damen glanced to Nikandros, who sighed.

"I'll find us some horses," he said, and with footsteps weighed down by reluctance, he made his way out of the building. There was no sign of him amongst the early morning crowds when Damen and Laurent stepped outside soon after.

Damen followed Laurent through the streets. It was a more difficult task than anticipated. Laurent moved at a pace born of years ducking through crowded streets like this, moving without causing notice. Damen, with his larger build and the unfavourable position of being easily recognisable as an Akielon in a city holding no love for his people, could not quite match him. Luckily for him, though perhaps not for Laurent, the blond hair was a beacon easy to follow.

"Do you know where you are going?" said Damen, once he had regained some ground and come to stand beside a momentarily stilled Laurent. He had been moving with a sense of purpose and direction, yet Damen had begun to notice the creeping familiarity of the roads they traversed; they were retaking the same paths.

"Be quiet."

They were at the point where the street diverged in all directions. The heart of the spider's web. Laurent peered down each path in turn, brow furrowed in thought, though Damen was helpless to discern what he was searching for. After a moment he had come to his decision — or perhaps just guessed — and he headed east without waiting to see if Damen was heading after him.

Briefly he entertained the notion that this might all be a plot of Laurent's: keep Damen distracted for as long as possible, while an associate slipped inside the empty theatre to rob Damen of all he was worth. He would have considered it a little longer, had he and Laurent both been keenly aware of just how little that was.

"Ah," said Laurent after another few minutes, "there he is."

Damen followed his gaze across the small square where they had come to a stop, towards a child stood alone, back pressed against the building behind. He was looking about the people moving to and fro as if searching for a lost parent. As Laurent approached, the boy moved, striding towards a nearby woman clutching at the hand of another dark-haired child.

But he did not stop when he reached her. He moved straight past without slowing, and his eyes flicked to Laurent, a grin stretching wide across his young face. There was a leather coin pouch in his hand.

Of course. Damen sighed, and the moment the boy was within reach he snatched the pouch from him and hurried after the woman. "Excuse me," he called. The woman turned, a flash of apprehension crossing her features when she took in Damen's appearance. He held out the coin pouch. "You dropped this."

"Oh." Wide-eyed, she took it and pulled it tight to her chest as relief washed visibly over her. "Bless you, sir."

The boy was glaring back at Damen when he returned. "What was that?" he spluttered.

"Did you see the state of her clothes? Did you feel how light her purse was? That money is probably all she has."

"So?"

"So she's in need of it," said Damen.

"I'm in need of it." He huffed and glanced up to Laurent, who had observed the exchange with his usual impassive expression. "Who is this southern fuck, Laurent?"

"He is my knight in shining armour."

Damen had never heard the term sound so much like an insult. "You can stay here, if you'd like," he replied, and tried to suppress the grin that wanted to surface at the scowl Laurent shot him in response.

He turned his gaze back to the boy, still watching Damen as if he might launch forward in attack at any moment. Damen anchored himself in place, just in case. The boy couldn't do Damen much harm, if he did strike, though still Damen had no desire to draw the attention of the people already filling the streets by finding himself in a tussle with a feral child.

"Have you seen Aimeric?" said Laurent.

His voice drew the boy's attention away from Damen, and, satisfied for the moment that he was not at immediate risk of being clawed at by tiny hands, Damen cast his eyes around the rest of the square. There were no shining helms or vibrant red cloaks to be seen. He could only hope it remained that way until they were out of the city.

The boy snorted in response. "He's probably off looking for someone who'll keep a roof over his head for as long as he continues to suck their cock. What's going on?"

"We are going to Kempt," said Laurent.

Damen and the boy both had the same reaction. "What?"

Laurent turned to Damen first. "Nicaise is coming with me," he announced. "Consider it another stipulation."

"I'm not going anywhere," the boy — Nicaise — said. He was looking up at Laurent with a sour expression. Damen was strangely glad not to be on the receiving end of it.

Laurent gazed back down at him. There was something in his eyes, not paternal affection, but a sense of fondness all the same. Damen couldn't see how such a feeling would be possible, but from what he had learned of Laurent it was perhaps not surprising that he would reserve his affection for someone equally disagreeable.

"Very well," replied Laurent, as if that was the end of the matter. Damen didn't believe it for a moment. "And I suppose next time you catch the Guard's attention you might be lucky. They might only take one hand."

The pair stared at one another in a silent stand-off, Nicaise's face darkening with each passing second until eventually he relented. "Fine," he snapped. "I'll go with you."

Satisfied, Laurent turned back to Damen. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

Nikandros was already outside the theatre loading up their provisions when Damen and Laurent returned with Nicaise sulking behind. At the sight of Nicaise, he frowned and looked to Damen. All Damen could do was offer a helpless shrug in response.

"I only bought three horses," said Nikandros.

"That's fine." Laurent stepped forward and took the reins of one of the horses — the one, Damen noticed, which was carrying the fewest bags. "Nicaise will ride with me."

The boy made a noise of indignation in response, but at the look Laurent shot him, any argument he might have had he kept to himself. With a loud huff to let them all know in no uncertain terms how he felt about this, he climbed up onto the horse, waiting for Laurent to mount in front and lead him out through the city gates as if he was the supposed lost prince, not Laurent.

This, Damen suspected, was going to be a very long ride.


End file.
